Open Doors
by Twenty Four Hours Open
Summary: Padma awoke one day to find her house cold and dead. She ignored it. She moved to go about her day, a strange feeling still in the back of her mind. But when she went to leave, the door lead somewhere she did not expect and took her beyond her bland life.
1. Silence and Clarity

**Disclaimer: Don't own Lord of the Rings, don't own anything, really. Save maybe Padma…and even there I'm not so certain.**

**Silence and Clarity**

                "I'm going now!" Padma's voice reverberated and slowly died away in the silent, empty halls of the house. The furniture seemed to mock her as it sat there, unused and alone, while the windows, shades cracked open a tad, allowed the dim, golden light of the new dawn to pour in and show off the thin amounts of dust trailing through the draft-less home. No voice responded to her call, no sound from any room, no shift in light or creak of stair replied. She gently, quietly lifted up her bag and slid her house keys out of the front pocket. It was so strange, so lonesome to have this kind of silence. She set her hand on the cool brass doorknob and lingered for a moment.

                "I'll be back later…" Padma called back into the house and stared, anxiously up at the white ceiling. 

                Nothing.

                Crestfallen and a bit unnerved, she opened the door and turned to face the morning light. Padma froze in the doorway, and stared out into the whiteness of it all. Her eyes smarted from the sun above and its fragmented reflection before her, but she could not will them to close. Up unto her very doorstep, until the horizon, were the great, blue, and perfectly crystal waters of the sea. The sky above was littered periodically with clouds and the water below sparkled blue in the pale white light of the dawning sun.

                She stood, transfixed, in the alcove of the door for some time and just watched it all. Never had she seen anything quite so peculiar and never had she witnessed anything so spectacular or silent as this had been. Indeed it must have been surreptitious in the making, for she had not witnessed it at all until this very moment. Her mind reeled but, as no danger had openly presented itself, she did not recoil from the sight but simply stared off into the distance. Only when she had regained some of her wits about her did she think to question the sight before her.

                "This can't be real…" she whispered and knelt down in the doorway. Padma set down her bag and, tentatively, stretched out her fingers towards the water. She tapped the clear and shining blue, it was cold and bit at her skin so newly warmed by the fantastic sight of the rising sun. She stared into the water for some time and lifted her gaze to see the expanse once more. It was so clear that she could make out rows of waving green beneath the surface and the perfect white of the sand beneath. It looked like a field of tall grasses, shifting in an ever-present wind. But there were no fish, no other living things save the seaweed and herself.

                "No…that's not right," Padma corrected herself quietly but aloud to her disbelieving mind. The ocean was so calm, so serene, that it almost seemed to be singing. Not literally, of course, but gone was the white noise that plagued the shores back home, gone was the biting streams of wind, and the muggy feeling of the hot sun evaporating waters. The sea was perfect, calm, crisp, and it smelt of cold salts even while the air was warm and comfortable above it.

                She stood once more and cast her eyes to the distant horizon. Somehow, the distortion of such far off and imagined things as the horizon was gone, but the world did seem to drop off much sooner than it should have. She stared for some long time and noticed a flicker of movement, a thin flash of silvery light that dissipated into the serenity of the world.

                "Wait!" Padma said and was startled at how her voice carried. The waters were so quiet, but that was not the way of the ocean. "Where am I?" Padma whispered and the world did nothing in response. She backed through the alcove, closed the door, and stared for some long time, breathing deeply, at the wood before her. She closed her eyes tightly, the light shifted, she exhaled very quickly, and threw the door open in one abrupt move. She gasped and her eyes widened instantly as she saw the new world before her.

                No longer was the ocean there, nor the fleeting image of a silver ship. This was a deep place; she could hear it on the branches, in the air. The forest before and around her was tall, dark, and looming ever so greatly upon her. Just before her doorstep was a pond, and in it were rocks so covered over by moss that they appeared to be little more than moss, solidified into one great item, and hardened by years. There were tiny flashes of gold and blue in the water, they looked like fish. But even here there was no life aside from herself and the plants. 

                "I was just…." Padma could not finish the thought, so perplexed was she by this. She knelt down once more and touched the water to assure herself it too was real. The water was cool and moved with a swift current. This was no pond; it was a stream, a river, which ran past her horizontally. She could not see it in the dark, but for the bare green lights through the trees and the thin, veiled glow of those plants which had grown so accustomed to the blackness they simply became alight themselves.

                "Hello?" she called out once more, but no reply came and her voice did not carry so far in this place as it had before. But just as it had before, something here showed itself to her in its passing. Just through the greatest trees, those twice or thrice so tall as her two story house with such thickness that she would need a great many friends to form a circle around one, a flicker of white and gold, figures, silhouettes in the darkness and green glow of the woods, which were all tall and fair. Each of these bore a shining item in hand, some swords, some bows, others spears and flags. 

                "Can you tell me—?" Padma hadn't the chance to finish her question as her voice moved through the figures of light and shattered them as a fan would to a wisp of smoke. Her eyes searched the darkness for some time, but she could not find them, she could not see them though the night of it all. Only the trees, only the water, only the plants but none else could she see here. She moved to close the door once more and, only as she had it mostly shut, did one of the figures return. He was right before her door, traced in a thin film of dim and shifting light. She had closed the door though, before she could get any more than a glance of his profile as he passed. The light shifted again as she threw the door open, in hopes of catching him, but that world had passed her by and now she saw something different.

                It was a desert, and she stood with her doorstep atop of an oasis. Water was once more before her, thin grasses wafted in the superheated air, and the higher breezes tugged the tall, waving palms too and fro. She stared at the distance, here there was distortion of place and the horizon existed most blurred upon its rightful place. Heat rose up, she could see it from the sand, and feel it from the arching rocks that scraped at the blue sky like fingers from the earth.           

                "No…that's wrong," Padma whispered as she corrected her eyes. She squinted into the brightness and insufferably clear desert, towards the distortions she had thought were heat, and it took her only moments before the figures once more appeared in some good clarity. These, however, were not the figures of light as before. Here, in this brightness, they were dark and shining back in red what the noonday sun could tell. Hundreds, thousands, millions? They were innumerable to her in this place as they marched through the heat. Where were they going? She was hesitant to call out to them for any reason; they were so many and she so few. She paled and stepped further into her house as her vision of them grew stronger, for it did, with time and her silence. They, all of them, were bearing a myriad of weapons and shields. These men, creatures, and horrible things marched to make war. 

                Her heart halted in her chest as one of the figures turned towards her and stopped marching. She paled and quickly slammed the door shut. Her heart was racing inside her chest as she stared at the warmed wood and the brassy knob in her fingers. She closed her eyes and leaned forward until her head hit the door with a muted 'thump.' She took a few deep breaths and opened her eyes only to find that the light through the windows was, once more muted to a softer shade. 

                Padma exhaled slowly and released the knob from her grasp. She backed away from the door, her eyes not leaving it, her mind fixed upon it, and she was loath to open it again. She turned from the door, swiftly, and halted, mid-step, as she spotted the windows across the hall. They showed what they had always shown, the world as it had looked every single morning she had ever looked out side of them. Was she dreaming? Padma's sense of curiosity, unfortunately, won out over her self-preservation and she turned back to the door. Carefully she moved back to it, house keys still in hand, and her bag resting against the wall by the alcove. 

                "Am I asleep?" Padma leaned over her bag and pulled the curtains away from one of the tall, narrow windows that stood on either side of the door. She could see her street, the court across from them, her dirty blue car in the driveway, the neighbor's black and white cat stretched and yawning on the pavement of the sidewalk, and there were bluebirds that flitted back and forth from one side of the street to the other. 

                Reassured, she picked up her bag, looped the long strap over her shoulder, and gently wrapped her fingers around the brass knob again. She steadied her shaking right hand and gripped the knob so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She swallowed her fear, took a deep breath, and turned the knob but she did not pull on the door—not at first.  She stretched up onto the balls of her feet; her darkly colored coveralls and thin knee-length coat shuffled slightly, and peered through the peephole in the door. Despite being slightly distorted, she sat her front doorstep and the concrete stairs that led down to her driveway. She let out a sigh of relief, stepped back, and casually opened the door. 

                She was nearly knocked flat to the ground by the force of the winds that poured through the door. She was horrified, for even with all her caution this was not the outside of her house. This was some place altogether different, some place dark and stormy. This place was not as calm as the others she had seen, for here it stormed, but it was by no means as terrible as most storms. The wind chilled her, the rain fell in all different directions, but none of the water crossed the threshold, it simply stayed outside. Before her doorstep was a great puddle formed of rainwater and all about the world was rock. There were flowers, bedraggled, trees, soaked, and grasses that swayed and were torn back and forth by the powerful winds.

                Padma scrambled back to escape the winds, but the door was torn from her hands by the force of it all. She stepped backwards and tripped on the rug that lay just beyond the front door. The door flew open, struck the wall, and then swung back, violently, as she lost her balance. Within seconds, Padma was struck hard in the back by the brass knob, the knocker hit her head, and she was thrown through the doorway into the place she had only seen. Curiously enough, though she did not notice this, the door closed perfectly and the house was utterly calm just after she was gone.

                Padma let out a scream as she fell into the world she had wished to rid herself of. She opened her eyes and everything had become darker, danker, less sheltered. It was almost as if she had seen a toned down, distorted, sugarcoated version of it before. The rocks were sharp; many had slimy moss or algae growing upon them from the rains, and the rain was falling in much greater amounts than what she had seen. The wind bit at her, the rain stung her skin, and within moments she was soaked and fighting to climb out of the puddle that had been before her door. Lightning flashed and, for a moment, the world was too bright to see. Thunder rolled and shook the foundations of the rock beneath her. The mountain grumbled, and she fled into the rain.

                She fled, stumbling, frigid, and blind through the spiraling and biting storm. The lightning made her jump with every flash and the great rolling thunder shook the ground so badly that she stumbled more than once. She fell forwards over a shadowed stone and ended up sprawled out across the ground. She moved her arms over her head and realized that some of the great thunderous claps and rolls and the shaking of the mountain was not wholly due to the storm. 

                "Impact tremors?" Padma shouted as the sound of her own voice comforted her somewhat in this unfamiliar place. "Where would those come from? Is someone blasting on the other side of the mountain?" She was both elated and panicked as she turned and peered, wide-eyed, into the darkness around her. Another great tremor shook the mountain, but she could see no blast, no smoke rose up, and no flying debris. There were only two things that Padma, for all her years and experiences, knew down to the absolute: stories, and explosives. This was like some terrible nightmarish story, but that was no explosive.

                Padma stared towards the origin of the sound and her throat closed up and her heart nearly stopped as her eyes caught sight of the source, a great lumbering shadow, perhaps fifty feet tall, or higher for she could not tell through the disruption. In its great fist it held tight a tree, withered and brutalized, with dirt still falling in clumps from its tangled roots. She did not wait to see more of this thing; she scrambled to her feet and ran away from it as fast as her legs would take her. Her mind paused as she heard hoof beats, but did not slow in her flight. Had she imagined them?

                She turned her head as she ran and, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of silver strike the great lumbering thing. She saw no more, however, because the ground beneath her abruptly ceased to be and she fell forward. Her shoulders hit the ground first, there was a searing pain that shot through her head, and her legs were caught up on some plant. This was all she remembered before she passed out from the pain and sheer terror of it all.

Author's Notes: I once read a story where the girl who was transported from her world opened her door to find the ocean. She just said something akin to "WoW! OMG!!! Water!" and left it at that. The lack of description and setting disappointed me, but I got over it fairly quickly. I decided if I were ever going to write a story where a girl got transported anywhere, I was going to make it very strange and very unnerving.

So, what did you think? Too much?

I would much like a beta for this—any who are willing, feel free to e-mail me at twentyfourhoursopen@yahoo.com .


	2. Lost in Translation

**Disclaimer:…If I have to put up a Disclaimer, what do you think I own?**

**Lost in Translation**

                Padma pressed her eyelids together in the morning light. She hated being woken up by the light, it was always bothersome. Darshan must have left the curtains open last night. Padma smiled as she felt a weight lift off of the end of her bed. She covered her face with her pillow, as she often did, and muttered into it something in Hindi. She always chastised him about something or another in the morning, and always she would open with that same 'where do you think you're going' line that her mother had always used on her. She took in a deep breath and removed her pillow from her face abruptly. 

                "Byak! What is that?" She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue as she realized that the strange smell was not coming from the bedding but wafting through the air. "Darshan, did you try to make chapatti again?" Padma sat up, waved her hand in front of her face, and tried to swing her legs out of bed only to discover that the edge of the bed was much farther over than she was used to. She opened her eyes sleepily and snapped to full attention as she saw white sheets next to her darkly colored skin rather than the purple and red tones of her bedroom.

                "Where am I?" Padma shouted and backed up against the headboard. She gave a small shout as a hand touched her but she clamed quickly as she realized that it was just the statue on the stone headboard of the bed. She turned around and spotted two regal looking men eying her with dispassionate expressions. She stared at them for a long time and then prompted them again. "Well?"

                The two of them looked at one another and broke out into conversation. She hadn't the faintest as to what language they were speaking, but it was entrancing to listen to nonetheless. The taller, nobler, blonde man turned to her and spoke in a language much different than the first. This one was significantly less enchanting to the ears and wits, but it got the job done. This was probably how English sounded to them. Padma just stared back at them with that same blank expression they had given her.

                "Um…no speakenze Duech?" Padma, who wagered that their language was more likely German than Spanish (which was a fairly wide jump as far as linguistics go), slurred together the only sentence she knew in mock German. She told them she didn't speak it.  

                They just eyed her blankly and shared another few words. Finally, after a long, uneasy silence, the blonde man left and the darker haired one tried to coax her into a slightly more relaxed place than curled up against the headboard with her fists up. He had just barely managed to convince her, with only base sign language akin to charades, that he was not going to try to kill her when the blonde man returned with another dark haired lordly man behind him. This one was wearing a dress, but if he noticed the strange look Padma gave him, he said nothing. In fact, he said nothing at all, just stared at her in silence for nearly two minutes.

                "What is it? Do I have something on my face?" Padma had finally snapped under his stony gaze. She couldn't take it! It was driving her mad to have someone simply stare at her like that for so very long, and without even a motion towards any idea or concept whatsoever. They were a bit taken aback by her sudden shouting, but her lively arm motions towards her face and that extending of the arms in irritation that carried the universal meaning of 'WHAT!?' aided them in understanding this outburst. The third man arched an eyebrow at her, held up his hands, and slowly motioned for her to calm down. He asked her something, but she just screwed up her face and eyed him back before shrugging and shaking her head.

                Padma, in fact, was quite fortunate that she had landed in this particular place at this particular time in this place's history. Her dark, Indian complexion, long black hair, and Hindi designed jewelry had given her an advantage in this place. Confusion on the part of peoples not easily confused was a decided bonus. They had intended to interrogate her as to how she managed to get that close to Imladris without their knowing, but upon discovering that she did not understand the common tongue they relented for the moment and unanimously decided that she must have simply been a particularly lucky individual.

                Fortunately the elves had some politesse about them for prisoners and trespassers, for even as Padma stared at them blankly now they did not think or speak too ill of her or the situation. Had she, like you, known what they were talking about than she would have realized why, exactly, the blonde one was going to be bothering her for quite some time. And, if she had any of her wits about her again, she would have noticed far sooner that these were not mortal men, but the most refined and regal of the Elves. After much conversation the three of them reached a second unanimous decision of the day. The two possessed of dark hair left from the room and the blonde one turned to examine her. After much silence he took a seat across the room from her and seemed to be deep in thought until she interrupted him.

                "Am I dead?" Padma asked in a mystified tone that, apparently, transcended the language barrier. He turned to pay her full attention, but simply furrowed his brow at her. She pointed to herself and made a fairly standard motion across her neck before letting her head fall limply against her shoulder. Apparently he missed the questioning tone in her voice as he stood up abruptly and stared at her in horror.  Padma's eyes widened, she shook her head, and waved her hands about randomly as if to dismiss the notion he'd assumed—by the look of it, he thought she wanted to cut her throat open.

                "Lost in translation," Padma muttered and tried to conceive of a better method by which to communicate than charades.

                After nearly half an hour the two of them managed to communicate, via charades and quickly learned short words, the questions 'Am I dead?' and 'What's that smell?' Surprisingly, the latter had been far easier than the former. By the end of their little exercise in the powers of charades and simply spoken base words the both of them were eager for something easier. Both pondered for a while and, finally, the blonde man came to a reasonable concept. He crossed the room to a small dresser, opened the top drawer, and took out a pair of writing instruments (they vaguely resembled quills…) and a large stack of yellowed paper that looked disturbingly as if it had not been made from trees.

                "_Tecil_," the man said and handed her one of the strange, feathered pens. 

                "Tecil?" Padma asked oddly and eyed him until he motioned to the pen in his hand. "Oh! Pen! Tecil!"

                The man nodded, repeated the word to her once more in the less brilliant of the languages she had heard from them, and Padma wrote it down on the page. This pattern continued back and forth until every inanimate object within the room and a few things that could be seen out the window were labeled and learned by both parties in the others' language(s). It was when they began to classify one another and the several adjectives used to describe people that they came to a series of most eerie commonalities. The word 'men' and 'man' for example, were the same in English as they were in this lesser language—Westron was it? The word 'woman' was varied slightly, but the word 'human' was totally foreign to anything other than English and Hindi. 

                "How could they be referred to as Men and not Human?" Padma asked more rhetorically than seriously but she got a response nonetheless.

                The elf drew a small figure on the paper, it was just a bit beyond a stick figure, and wrote a word above it. He repeated the word in Westron for man and the word in his language—was it Sindarin…or did he say something about Kenya?—and tapped the word with his pen. He then drew another figure with pointed ears, like his, and wrote another word next to it. This was the third of the commonalities. Elf, in Westron, elf in English, and elda or eldar in his languages.

                "First born? Eldest?" She wrote that down and drew a little scribbled figure of a baby and a one. He paused at the one, but when she held up a single finger he realized what she meant and nodded. "Wow…and here I always thought Elves were little tiny things…. That theory is right out, isn't it?" She grinned at him as she asked this. He just smiled back, unsure, and agreed to seem polite.

                The two worked for some time longer and, after much confusion and much deliberation, they had managed to identify one another by direct first name basis. She could not refer to him, in their language, as Lord Glorfindel—she had enough trouble with the name itself—and he could not grasp the concept of a secondary name that didn't refer to parentage. They, in the end, simply gave up on the idea and began to call one another by rather butchered sounding versions of their names. He winced and laughed slightly as she tried to pronounce and then rewrite his name, and she just gave him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder as he tried hers.

                The two had mastered very, very basic grammar with the small amount of vocabulary they had amassed by the time the sun had crossed behind the tall mountains overhead. It was, perhaps, still three or more hours until dinner would be set out, but the blonde elf left the room to gather them up some food nevertheless. He returned with a pair of plates bearing something that resembled food on them. He looked excited, as excited as she had seen him look, at least, since he had managed to write her name correctly in her language, so she assumed it to be edible. She started to eat it and instantly her mouth argued with the pleased expression on his face. She fought herself not to spit it out at once, so odd a taste and texture it had to it, simply out of politesse. She ate it and tried to look pleased, but after the third bite she knew it would not sit well with her stomach. She reached to take a drink from the mug he had brought her and nearly gagged as she realized it was not water but wine.

                Sadly, her face had been so surprised and sickened by the combination of the wine and the food that even Glorfindel could not prevent himself from laughing. His laugh, however, was fairly ill-timed as it had occurred just as he attempted to swallow some of his food. He froze for a moment and tried to clear his throat. He coughed and hit himself in the chest lightly, but when it did nothing he began to panic. Elves were immortal, yes, but there were few things that could survive without air. Choking was nearly as surefire a death as swords and flame. He stood up abruptly and stumbled towards the door. He wasn't certain what she had done, or how it had worked, for their own method for correcting this rare occurrence was quite different. She had managed to force the offending piece of bread free by an odd maneuver with her arms around his stomach and her behind him.

                "Are you alright?" Padma asked as she released him and he leaned over, gasping for air. She forgot for the moment that he couldn't understand her, and so did he, for he smiled at her and drew her up into a very un-elvish embrace while speaking very merrily in Elvish. She had no idea just how strange it was to be hugged so by an elf-lord, so the importance of his actions eluded her, but she smiled and nodded nonetheless. He released her, laughed, said something very nice about her in Elvish, and decided that he liked her much more for this act of quick response. 

                It had taken days before Padma was able to do many things in this place, namely, eating without wretching only a few hours later, convincing them that she didn't drink, sleeping properly, speak and be spoken to with any grasp of what was being said, and coping with the clothes they provided her. The first of these problems was not a very permanent solution for the only way she saw around it was to sneak into the kitchens and cook her own food. The ingredients still made her a little queasy due to the fact that they were very different from those she used to purchase at the market, but the familiar (ish) flavor of her own recipes did much to comfort her. Unfortunately the elves around her had as little love of her cooking as she did for theirs. The rest simply took time and a bit of understanding.

                After several weeks, when the elves, particularly Lord Elrond, had gathered that she now understood a good amount of Westron, they decided to question her about herself. They were not a very trusting bunch, but after several mishaps and her general level of ill-grace they had determined her to be little more than a hazard to fragile pottery and the curtains of the kitchens. They called her to Lord Elrond's library one day and she, completely unsuspecting of what was to come, arrived quite early. When the three of them entered the room, however, and neither man made a move to take up a book, she determined that this was not to be a casual conversation.

                "You wish to know where my home is?" Padma repeated the question in the form of another question, as she often did for she was not wholly fluent in this language. "Far off, through a door on the water." This was the most coherent answer she could give them for; honestly, in correlation to this place she did not know where her house lay.

                "Very well." Elrond inclined his head and pondered on this for a long time. He was well versed in maps, but he knew naught of such a thing. Fortunately, he could not press her answer further for he had no maps that accurately displayed the region he suspected she was from. "What are your skills there?" Elrond had to force his level of diction down considerably, and still Padma was confused. Glorfindel had to attempt a translation of the question to her and her face lit up with understanding but quickly darkened as she tried to think of an answer.

                "I do not know the words to tell you," Padma said quietly, with a bit of an uneasy expression. Elrond motioned to Glorfindel and she bit her lip before attempting to tell him. The problem with Padma's profession was not that she did not speak the words for it in Elvish or in Westron; it was that neither language accurately held words to describe it as her job did not yet exist in Middle Earth. She told Glorfindel and he repeated the word, silently, and aloud several times before turning to Elrond and shaking his head. She was a Pyrotechnition and a Demolitionist. "But, I suppose that is, if I were to explain it in a very broad manner I could be called a weapons smith." At this the two elves stared at her, slightly taken aback.

                "A maker of weapons?" Glorfindel asked skeptically, as if she didn't quite understand what she had told them. She nodded and he arched an eyebrow. He shot a look and Elrond and the two continued on with the questioning.

                "How did you come so far into our land without our knowing?" Elrond's next question was met by that same ponderous look that he had received every time he tried to ask, but this time, unlike the others, she had formulated a response.

                "I opened a door to the mountain." This seemed a very strange reply indeed, and Glorfindel would have asked her of her certainty as he did before had he not seen the positive look in her eyes upon her speaking.

                "Where is this door?" Elrond asked, assuming she meant that she had found a path or a tunnel.

                "In my home." This simple answer they did not expect and it flummoxed them, though they did not show it on the outside.

                "How?" Glorfindel asked quickly and Padma looked up at him.

                "I had with me my keys, my bag, and the door simply opened to me. I know not how or why." Padma smiled at him a bit sadly. "Maybe another will open and I may leave your dreadful food behind me." Padma laughed to clear herself of her accumulating depression and Glorfindel cracked a smile.

                "Do you suppose that this door could be opened again?" Elrond asked, without even so much as a lightening of the eyes at her jest.

                "Maybe, sir, though I know not how it opened to begin with." Padma shrugged and looked down at her feet to avoid the stony eyes of the Elf Lord. She only looked up when she heard something being set upon his desk before her. "My bag." Padma gingerly lifted it; she'd thought she'd lost it in the storm when she fell. She looked up at the two, standing elves before her and even with her lack of knowledge she knew this meant she had their trust.

                "Glorfindel," Elrond spoke without turning his eyes from Padma. "Perhaps you could show her to the smithy?"

                "Sir?" Glorfindel asked and creased his eyebrows slightly.

                "If she is a weapons smith, that would greatly explain why she is such a terrible cook and maid, don't you think?" Elrond's lips curled up at the edges into a light smile and Glorfindel stifled a laugh. This was an even weightier honor than that before; never had Lord Elrond ever made fun of her in such a wanton way!

Author's Notes: Well here's chapter 2, but due to lack of vacation the next chapter will not come so swiftly. We slowly have Padma learning Westron (and vicariously, Glorfindel learning English) and some Sindarin…or was that Quenya? Right, whatever!

Thanks to my reviewers—you guys rock! (You think I'm good!? How'd that happen…?) And unfortunately there are quite a few authors who disregard syntax and diction when writing. I sincerely hope I haven't…If you catch an error, please tell me! I tried to read this over, but when reading my own work I tend to read through the errors…. 

As for the Padma/Padme thing…I named her Padma because of it's meaning in Hindi—all the names of my OC's can be looked up for underlying meaning at .

Interesting Tidbit!

Rohan is a male Hindi name which means "ascending." 

Tolkien, tricksy one he is.

You read…why not review too while your at it. A little R&R is good for a soul.


	3. Vibrant and Enthusiastic

**Disclaimer: To be discluded due to the obvious fact that I don't own anything, really.**

**Vibrant and Enthusiastic**

                "Swords?" Telerion asked as he heated the flames of the furnace for one of his coworkers.

                "No," Padma replied and shook her head. The dark-haired, mildly soot-covered elf was confused.

                "Knives?" He tried again.

                "No." Padma shook her head once more.

                "Axes?"

                "Never even held one."

                "Bows?"

                "No."

                "Arrows?" He asked, she shook her head. "Not even the fletching?"

                "The what?" Padma responded and he arched an eyebrow at her.

                "Shields? Armor?" Telerion prompted, a sly smile crossing his features as he thought he'd assumed what she made.

                "Well…occasionally shields…more like walls, but never really armor." Padma shrugged and Telerion paused in his stoking to stare at her incredulously.

                "You claim that you once were a weapons smith, correct?"

                "Well…for lack of a better word of it, yes." Padma nodded for the first time that morning.

                "If you do not make swords, knives, axes, bows, arrows, armor, and only partially shields," Telerion said and only after shields did he take n more breath, "how are you then a weapons smith? What is it you know to make?"

                Padma grinned at him and said something very strange in English which he did not understand—nor would Glorfindel as there was not a word for it in Sindarin, Quenya, or Westron alike.  In fact, the only two languages that even possessed such words to describe of what she spoke were Dwarvish and Orcish (that dialect most oft used by the Goblins under the mountain, to be precise).

                "What?" Telerion did not even attempt to repeat this word for it sounded cacophonous and hard to his ears and would have, likely, irked his tongue to form it. Padma paused and considered the best way to explain—she would need to do this most carefully.

                "Has the ground of Imladris ever shaken wildly and without prompt?" Padma asked and Telerion shook his head. It would have been a feat if even Lord Elrond had remembered the last earthquake at Imladris it had been so long back and ago. "Then have you ever felt the raw force of thunder on the mountain? When the ground moves and churns?"

                "That I have known once or twice, in passing." Telerion nodded though it was apparent in his features that he hadn't the faintest idea what that had to do with any weapons of the world.

                "I know of an art," (this was perhaps the wrong word, but Padma was only her third month in this place and was not yet well versed in vocabulary), "that will allow such great force as that to be captured and used."

                Padma's face, undoubtedly, had lit up as she spoke of these things for she loved them so very much. She had loved explosives and modern weaponry to such a point that she'd even made a career out of it, not that this mattered here, of course. Telerion must have seen her face as she said this and assumed she was exaggerating—she was not, in fact, for the image gunpowder in her mind was all too clear—as he laughed aloud.

                "And how would that be of any use in battle, youngling?" Telerion prompted her mirthfully and she smirked.

                "It can burn flesh, bite the air and turn it harsh, gnaw at steel, break iron and walls, shatter armor, crumble the base of mountains, and rip trees from the ground, tossing them casually into the air!" Perhaps she was getting a tad carried away; Telerion looked a tad nervous with her in such a frenzied state. "And should it be designed within a weapon! No archer could compete with speed and strength of such things! Accuracy! Quick notching! Nothing would compare!" 

                True, the word notching was not accurate for the description of a gun, but the word 'reload' had yet to be fashioned in any of the tongues of Middle-earth.

                "Calm yourself lady!" Telerion said in a cheerful but uneasy tone as he set his hand upon her shoulder. She looked up at him and, despite her enjoyment of such exciting memories, did as he requested and took a very deep breath. "You must later show me these things you speak of, but now it is midday and Glorfindel will soon be awaiting you."

                Padma's eyes widened and quickly she tried to make herself more presentable. Telerion laughed at her, as a forge and smithy were hardly the place to try and—how had she phrased it the other day—tiddy one's self up? She ignored him, tried to get the soot off of the shoulder of her dress, completely unaware that the pole she had been leaning against was not black by any means of paint and had left her blue dress with a decided dark spot.

                "Go youngling! Glorfindel will be there already and you are not half so presentable as he anyway!" Telerion teased and pushed her, lightly, towards the garden where she had taken to studying language with Glorfindel in the noonday sun.

                "Yet thrice as presentable as you Telerion, Enwinarni!" Padma shot back with a smile as she disappeared around the corner and out the door towards the garden.

                "Old am I?" Telerion shouted after her—it had taken him a moment to realize what she had called him in Quenya—"Oldest brother"—though the way she intonated it he did not like much. Still, it was amusing. 

                While Telerion mused over being such a klutzy mortal's adopted brother figure, albeit an _old_ one, the klutzy mortal had just managed to trip over a bench in her rush and nearly tumbled down a set of stairs. Fortunately most of the elves about and abound had learned that, with a mortal around, their quick reflexes were needed very often to compensate for the lack of handrails in Imladris. These skills would carry over very well in the near future, when they received another mortal into their midst.

                "Thank you!" Padma said, gave a short bow to her casual rescuer who had snagged the collar of her dress as she was about to go headlong down the stairs, and quickly went off. Needless to say, she arrived in the small rose garden looking considerably less eloquent than anyone meeting and Elf lord should.

                "How many today?" Glorfindel asked in perfectly impeccable English—his accent made him sound vaguely Romanian, which was a very strange thing to say about an elf.

                "Only two!" Padma retorted in her best Sindarin and Glorfindel laughed. "What are we to do today?" Padma quickly switched back to Westron, as that was the language she had originally intended to learn.

                "As you, I am sure, are well aware, it is very nearly the time of year for celebration of the Autumnal equinox." Glorfindel motioned up at the gold and ruby leaves upon the trees.

                "What day is it?" Padma asked, abruptly, her confusion and panic apparent on her face.

                "We are upon the thirtieth day of Narbeleth," Glorfindel responded unemotionally, as he always tended to. Padma quickly ran the numbers through her head and counted on her fingers—that left four days until Halloween!

                "I'm terribly sorry, please continue," Padma said with a smile.

                "At the celebration of the equinox," (Padma was still astounded that this was a word, but said nothing as she was still dealing with the names of the months), "I held hope that you would tell for us a tale of your land? Or perhaps sing a lay?" Glorfindel smirked at the awestruck shock that wormed its way into Padma's expression.

                "You want _me_ to tell a tale at _your_ celebrations?" Padma blinked a few times and stared at the ground in front of her.

                "Certainly," Glorfindel replied. "Lord Elrond suggested it, for he was certain our guests would enjoy it, and, I must say, I am rather excited about hearing a new tale after so long." Glorfindel smiled at her with a look that was decidedly against his character—he very nearly looked like Elladan or Elrohir. It was quite disturbing. "Would you care to…check your grammar with me beforehand? I would not mind listening to a story twice."

                "What kind of story should I tell?" Padma, who had paled considerably when she realized that there, would be more elves arriving as guests, turned to Glorfindel with a look of sheer terror on her face. "A tragedy, a comedy, a fairy-story, a true story, a war story, a horror story, an ancient fable, or a contemporary tale?" Padma was starting to hyperventilate.

                "Calm yourself!" Glorfindel, much like Telerion, commanded and set his hands on her shoulders to ground her to reality. He stared her straight in the eyes and she seemed to calm down considerably. "It cannot be so much of a great dilemma as you make it out to be."

                "But it is!" Padma stared at him incredulously. "I've heard stories from you and the others—true I didn't understand most of them, but they were fabulous tales!" Padma took a deep breath as Glorfindel shot her a reprimanding look. "The story I tell you will be the first you'll ever hear from my land…. What should you think if I tell it wrong, or poorly?"

                "I am _certain_," Glorfindel paused to accentuate his point, "that what ever you should choose to tell will be far better than last year." He was baiting her, she knew it, but even she couldn't resist something so obviously interesting.

                "What happened last year?" Padma squeaked as she fought down her panic.

                "Elladan and Elrohir." Glorfindel's tone was so deadly serious that Padma actually fought back a laugh, if he had said that to her before she had known the language she would have wagered he was talking about some devil upon the earth.

                "I can only imagine," Padma muttered through a laugh. Glorfindel's face became as cold and deadly serious as steel—he resembled the grim reaper in this state of ill amusement.

                "No you cannot." Glorfindel shook his head and his eyes widened as the memories came back to him. "I dare not speak of it, it is a cursed thing!"

                "Like Macbeth?" Padma asked in English and Glorfindel arched an eyebrow.

                "If you wish for more of an explanation, speak with Lord Elrond, and swiftly lest the two of them take to volunteering." Glorfindel released her shoulders, cast a wary glance over his shoulder, and quickly left the garden. He was so seriously unnerved that he looked as though he expected his memories to materialize and become reality once more. This disturbed and conversely gave hope to Padma—she would not have a difficult act to follow! Naturally, she got up that very moment and was off to seek Lord Elrond.

                "Last year's story?" Elrond asked as he turned from his books. His expression darkened and his back stiffened considerably at just the very mention of it. "My dear sons did a most…vibrant…and…enthusiastic," he paused and the scathing meaning behind his adjectives sank in, "recreation and retelling of the fall of Gondolin."

                Elrond took in a deep breath and let out a sigh as he sat down in one of his particularly regal, red velvet chairs. He massaged his right temple and closed his eyes at the thought of it all. Padma's hopes, however, were rising exponentially as she saw this reaction from the most noble of Elves.

                "It took nearly half a dozen fortnights to clean the oil, timber, and melon out of the hall." Elrond stared down at the carpet and frowned. "As for my fine, _imported_ silk curtains and the rich tapestry that was once upon the stage…the burns were impossible to repair."

                Despite the fact that Padma had never heard of the fall of Gondolin, she was beginning to get a picture of the events in her mind. Her spirits had risen to an ultimate high as she heard Elrond mutter something about 'by Elbereth' and 'never again shall we have cantaloupe.' She decided right then and there, with little thought.

                "Lord Elrond, sir," Padma began and the Elf Lord lifted his eyes to stare at her—his expression still tainted by the images of the last celebration. "I would be most honored to tell a slightly less…chaotic and destructive tale for your guests and yourself this year. It is the least that I can do."

                "Wondrous!" Elrond exclaimed (well…less 'exclaimed' and more 'said in a jubilant voice' but that was truly as close to an exclamation as Elrond of Rivendell was ever going to get) as he swiftly stood up from his chair. Padma bowed to him and he smiled down at her as he excused her. As she was passing the corner she could have sworn she heard him whisper something along the lines of 'Thank Eru!' but she could not be certain.

                Only a few hours had passed since Padma had left Elrond in his library, and she had come no closer to determining what story she would tell. She was on the verge of shouting at something when she was nearly terrified out of her wits as two rather irritated elves appeared in her midst. Elladan looked more than irked—he had his arms crossed over his chest and was glaring at her from the only entrance into the garden she was sitting in. Elrohir, on the other hand, looked more vexed as he leaned on the tree she was sitting under and glared down at her.

                "Good day, my lords," Padma said with the most sincere smile she could muster.

                "Indeed." Elrohir clicked his tongue.

                "How is it, Padma," Elladan began speaking in his most formal of tones—they must have felt seriously slighted, "that only a year after the most lively celebration ever in Imladris, the performers from that particular show are replaced so callously?"

                "Replaced?" Padma asked, feigning innocence. Elladan and Elrohir were the most infamous pranksters in all of Elvendom. Definitely not figures that anyone wanted to make enemies of and she was on the verge of that very thing. "Whatever do you mean?"

                "You dirty liar." Elladan hissed in a most effeminate way as his face went aghast.

                "You know full well of what we speak!" Elrohir cut in and Padma was beginning to get worried. They wouldn't hurt her physically, not intentionally, but they could make life very difficult and embarrassing. 

                "It is true!" Padma admitted it. She stood up abruptly, though it did little good as they were still head and shoulders over her, and backed up against the tree. "But perchance you two would aid me? I hear you are ambitious thespians."

                "Where did you hear that?" Elrohir paled and stepped back a bit.

                "It was all Orophim's fault! He got drunk! I was after the girl—it was totally one-sided!" Elladan shook his head and motioned defensively with his arms. Padma just stared at them blankly and noted this information away for later use against them.

                "_Thespians_," Padma repeated for their sake. "Theatrical performers."

                "Oh!" the two of them said in unison and a great wave of relief flooded over them.

                "It looks to me, 'Roh, that this little girl needs some help—should we grace her with our combined presence?" Elladan shot his twin a smug look and Elrohir looked Padma over.

                "Do you wager she can handle our astounding abilities as renowned _thespians_, 'Dan?" Elrohir asked and the two of them looked, mischievously, at Padma.

                "Lords Elladan and Elrohir, I withstood Halloween for many a year in a neighborhood filled with rambunctious, demanding toddlers." Padma smiled wryly. "I do believe I am prepared for all you could throw at me."

                Padma was, of course, totally unprepared for anything they could do but the challenge was there nonetheless. Fortunately, the twins instantly forgot this challenge. Unfortunately they posed her a very dangerous question—one that would have grave results for all of Elvendom until the ending of the world.

                "What, exactly, is this _Halloween_?" the twins asked in unison and Padma clapped her hands over her mouth.

Author's Notes: I'm terribly sorry, everyone! This chapter and, it is well likely, the next are a bit slow. I need to set up the plot ahead and introduce all of the key characters to Padma—sort of. Everything will pick up very quickly after the celebration show. Then the action and whatnot shall commence!

The site didn't display the url…but I get all of my OC names from 20,000-Names . com, it is a very useful site indeed. I highly recommend usage of it.

You've read—review?


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